Of Penitence and Perjury
by DontLook4Phoebe
Summary: Perhaps you've seen it, maybe in a dream. A murky, forgotten land. A place where those who are Chosen accept or deny, fruitlessly, a path that was long ordained for them. Every story has an end, however, and Oscar shall see it made. The circle must close, this time for good. All debts will be paid in full.
1. A Journey Cut Short

Good evening, afternoon, or morning.

I can't claim to know what time of day you're reading this, or where, or even how, so you'll have to excuse the uncertain greeting.

My name is Phoebe- I've written fanfiction here before, including one for Dark Souls (under different names), but up to date I've been uncertain how to complete them- not to mention that in the middle of writing the aforementioned Dark Souls story (a crossover with far, far too many characters and groups), Dark Souls 3 came out and utterly dashed most of the intentions I had for it to comply with overarching canon, aside from my additions.

But if the choice is to try again or go hollow, there is truly no choice at all.

This will not be a crossover. There will be no major-character OCs, aside from a few characters spoken of that never received characterization. No, not even the player-character of the series, the Chosen Undead, will be an OC unless something goes... wrong.

Characterization may be slightly different to your interpretation or even canon- this is because I am imperfect. Forgive me.

Discussion of physics and 'science' as it pertains to Dark Souls lore will be discussed at occasional length in the story, if only to grant understanding to those unfamiliar with the series, add depth, and help game mechanics translate to the setting itself. Occasionally, these will not match up precisely with how things work in-game. Occasionally things may change entirely. If I do things properly, perhaps some things will match up far better than you expect them to.

Colloquialisms will occasionally be used that do not seem to suit the world or 'time period' of the games. In practice, it is because sometimes there are no better, punchier ways of getting meaning across that I can think of. In dialogue, it is easy enough to think these are simply 'rough translations' of what characters are actually saying. In intent, they will not detract from the greater story to be told.

This story will move quickly when I am not focusing on dialogue, lore, science or physics. I will not dwell on areas 'uninteresting' to me, areas where there is little more to do than fight and kill, often. There will still be occasional fight scenes, because I quite like writing them, but Battle Against Group of Rats #7 hardly deserves a paragraph of note when Kirk is waiting just around the corner. Expect occasional leaps forward in 'time' with little warning save a page break. Expect very little romance, as well, aside from obvious pairings. This is not that kind of story.

This is my thank-you to one of the greatest game series I have ever played, right up there with Legacy of Kain, Jet Set Radio, Silent Hill (before Konami fucked it, the bastards), The House in Fata Morgana (visual novel. Still counts), Undertale, Armored Core, this absolute blast of a WoD-Genius game a friend of mine runs, and many others besides.

I hope you enjoy my farewell to Dark Souls, and please leave a review if you feel so inclined. They kindle my bonfire.

Yes, that was a euphemism.

-Phoebe

* * *

 _In the Age of Ancients the world was unformed, shrouded by fog. A land of gray crags, Archtrees and Everlasting Dragons. But then there was Fire and with fire came disparity. Heat and cold, life and death, and of course, light and dark. Then from the dark, They came, and found the Souls of Lords within the flame. Nito, the First of the Dead, The Witch of Izalith and her Daughters of Chaos, Gwyn, the Lord of Sunlight, and his faithful knights. And the Furtive Pygmy, so easily forgotten._

 _With the strength of Lords, they challenged the Dragons. Gwyn's mighty bolts peeled apart their stone scales. The Witches weaved great firestorms. Nito unleashed a miasma of death and disease. And Seath the Scaleless betrayed his own, and the Dragons were no more._

 _Thus began the Age of Fire. But soon the flames will fade and only Dark will remain. Even now there are only embers, and man sees not light, but only endless nights. And amongst the living are seen, carriers of the accursed Darksign._

 _Yes, indeed. The Darksign brands the Undead. And in this land, the Undead are corralled and led to the north, where they are locked away, to await the end of the world._

 _Only, in the ancient legends it is stated, that one day an undead shall be chosen to leave the undead asylum, in pilgrimage, to the land of ancient lords, Lordran._

* * *

Picture a bleak place. Bleaker. No, more harrowing and stagnant even than that. Take it to the furthest point your mind will allow, where madness was preferable to the eternity-old stains that cake the walls. It was bleaker, even than that, in all meanings of the word.

Atop the cliffsides of Hallowreach, there stands a building as a testament to denial. Few brave its nearing, and none need to, so remote is the fortress. No paths lead to it now, and even the great iron winches that once raised and lowered its drawbridge have rusted shut, denying all entry. The stones were charmless, inhospitable, and seemingly proud of that fact even as they crumbled away little by little off the cliffside it stood upon. Even the weathor second the feeling, with blisteringly cold winds, sleet, and just enough snow to be hazardous and barren of vegetation without encroaching on beauty.

Miserable, like every one of its mindless inhabitants.

The Undead Asylum, they called it. A prison in all but name, few humans were brought there mentally disturbed, but no centuries in this hole were ever kind. Here, those who were not mad soon became it. There was no escape- not over the walls, not through the gates, not past the massive demons that still walked its halls as guardians, wreaking more death upon those who could not die.

Instead of ever managing escape, the undead slowly lost their hope. They slowly lost their minds. They quickly lost their humanity- indeed, that was often the first to go. Finally, they lost their lives. All it added up to, was becoming everything people feared of the Undead. Hollow.

The broken dregs of humanity laboring under an eternal curse, shambling, attacking all those that even held a spark of the life that had left them and trying to claim it- fruitlessly- for themselves. There was no conceivable way any single one of them could ever even think of escaping again, let alone accomplish it. There was only the Hunger, and the crushing Loss.

Indeed, no prisoner could ever dream of escaping this place. Even if they had attempted to band together before their minds fled them, the Asylum had not always been crumbling, ruined. There is nothing you can do, behind a locked door of iron bars with only a human's strength.

* * *

But maybe... maybe you could break _**in**_.

Not through the crumbling hole in the earth that led into a basement cell- that was proven worthless, still sealed with sturdy bars and lock. Throwing a nearby body down said hole proved it was occupied by another Hollow undead- locked, never to escape, rising at the corpse's sound with still-obvious hunger.

No, with a rope and grappling hook, to scale the battlements on the rightmost side. A good set of armor, full plate, or near it. The tabard wasn't necessary, but he'd worn it too long to give up his colors now. A sword and shield, good Astoran steel, the former enchanted against demons and undead by skilled priests of Allfather Lloyd's Way of White, the latter warded by mage-scholars of the Dragon School to absorb most magics it could be brought to bear against.

Oh yes, Sir Oscar of Astora was dutifully prepared. Food and water were no concern- he had an estus flask, a pale green vessel that could cup the life-giving Flame and condense it into a beverage even an undead can enjoy. It mended wounds that a human would have to rely on magics, time, or rest, for. Being undead, if you had not yet gone Hollow, had its advantages for certain.

He had a purpose, a hope. Sure, in the back of his mind he suspected it was a ruse- that there was truly nothing to find in the Asylum, that his quest was pointless, that the 'fate of the undead' was meaningless, that he had no right to find Lordran when countless others had failed, but at least he had one. In having that, he was unstoppable barring imprisonment or dead ends. If slain, an Undead's corpse would, eventually, rise again. There was no need for nourishment by food or water. His limbs would never tire for long. He needn't even breathe. The only real consequence of this insufferable curse was the Darksign; a circular patch of rotted grey-green flesh upon his chest, ringed by the red and raw skin of an infection- something that any human would shriek at, and run, in dismay.

Then again, he had yet to truly die, after contracting the sign. Oscar was unsure what consequences came after, aside from arising again, and few scholars were willing to teach, understandably. A sobering question to ask, halfway up a massive stone wall while clinging to a rope with multiple pounds of armor and gear hanging from your shoulders.

By the time he reached the top, even Oscar needed to stop and rest for a moment. Undead or no, it had been a harrowing task. He would take off his helmet, pull up his rope and pack, then have a look around the top as soon as his joints stopped aching.

...That moment to stop and rest had been all the time that was needed for a massive club to hit him square in the back and cause him to crash entirely through the stone roof. Through the limited vision provided by his helmet, though it was much-loved and cared for, he never saw the massive bulk of what had done him in.

Unfortunate.


	2. A Long Death

Pain still existed, undead or no. In this instance, it was hardly bearable.

Oscar must have landed in the worst way, or the weight that had struck him had severed his spine at the waist. He could no longer feel his legs, save for a sharp ache that intensified by the second where the numbness began. The subtle 'pit pat' of dripping liquid onto stone was either melting snow from above, or blood from his waist. He suspected the latter. Not that it mattered- no mouthful of sweet estus would allow a spinal cord to mend.

All in all, to be forced into a cell like this, even if he were to rise again and not be hollow from failing at the first hurdle, he would never be able to get outside it. The iron-bar door was obviously still intact, and as heavy as ever. More's the joke- a brief inspection of the cell showed he'd landed next to a long-forgotten key. It was impossible to know what door it went to- even if it was the one he was locked behind, he'd never reach it with his mangled body. A cosmic joke.

Oscar'd failed, before he'd even begun, and was being heckled by the entire universe.

It was a long time, waiting in the dark, dank cell to die. Only the subtle clocktick of his draining life upon the stones told him it was no eternity, that only minutes had passed. It was no quiet wait, either; though it was impossible to tell the contents of the asylum from the inside, there was no mistaking the occasional distressed howl of a hungry Hollow, or their feet as the ones that had escaped their cells passed his own. There were a few he could not even identify the source of.

A series of loud, asylum-shaking crashes, intermixed by what sounded like the roars of a demon.

More sounds of bare feet, even and cautious, almost silent though the walls were determined to echo even the slightest sound.

What could only be the impact of flesh upon flesh, just outside the gated bars of his door and out of sight to the left. It seemed to go on for hours, as one hollow moaned in distress at the top of its lungs. This one was the most horrifying, but what he saw there was even more chilling.

It must have been the survivor, of the conflict- passing the bars of his cell, the hollow walked upright, with eyes that almost shined with a blank white. The skin... haggard, worn, decayed. Only rags, much-maligned and ill-kept, hung from its shoulders and waist. What was once a woman, possibly. It was difficult to tell, in this state- even the hair on its head had gone, only a few short and dirty bristles remaining in their place in patches.

He hadn't expected to see it pause, and turn to stare at him.

Oscar had certainly not expected it to slowly reach forward, soundlessly grasp one of the bars.

No one could have expected it, then, to nod its head, and walk away without even a growl of hunger.

More minutes of silence. Even his blood had stopped dripping upon the stones, now. It would not be long.

The sound of an opening door. Iron. Squeaky. Not his. Of course, it wouldn't have been.

Silence resumed, and Oscar's vision began to fade. The slit in his helmet seemed to grow dim, the edges closing in. There was a rumbling, not far from his cell, but he could pay it no mind. Death beckoned.

And then his sight shot wide, as the wall opposite his impromptu rest exploded inward in a shower of shrapnel and noise.

* * *

Coughing in his death throes and the floating dust, Oscar strained to speak. "Oh, you... You're no Hollow, eh?"

The figure standing there, in the still-clearing debris and smoke that floated in the stale air, leaned against the shattered wall and shook her head. It was indeed that undead from earlier, outside his bars.

Not insane. Blank though those eyes were, they had an intensity and force of will few had even in life.

Almost certainly female, now. What curves she'd had were gone with the rot, but there was no mistaking the original cut of her clothing, the hint of where flesh had used to be and gone.

The explosion had been a cast-iron cannonball, from gods-knew-where, evidently rolled down a flight of stairs and into his chamber. Perhaps it was this Undead's doing, but perhaps not- his armor would have been anyone's fine prize once upon a time, and his armaments still were.

Coughing, once, Oscar tried to speak again.

"Thank goodness. ...I'm done for, I'm afraid. I'll die soon, then lose my sanity. I wish to ask something from you- you and I, we're both undead. Hear me out, will you?"

Wordlessly, the undead- injured, with long cuts that went into the bone he could see now- crept closer. There was a brief hesitation in its rotting, dried limbs as it sat down next to him with a low, feminine groan of effort. How long had it been like this? Oscar could swear he heard her joints creaking.

He almost protested, when she reached for the estus flask at his hip, drained it dry between yellowed teeth, and then put it back upon his belt while holes left by arrows began to slowly close.

Her voice was imperious. Used to command, obvious even through the gutteral hiss of a voice that was almost beyond use.

"No. It is better you simply die."

Shock, even beyond that of being unable to feel his legs. His almost-rescuer was callous- but when it faded, all Oscar could do was laugh, tortuously, heedless of the pain it caused to spike along his back, his lungs. All she wanted was his gear. It made a sad, simple sense.

"Hah hah... yes, I see. Of course. Perhaps I was too hopeful... hah."

And then his last breath left him.

* * *

"Welcome back. ...It's been a day."

The two words that greeted Oscar were unexpected. He dared not open his eyes- had he died? Or merely slept? There was only one way to be sure.

Slowly, cautiously, he tried to move. An arm. Then the other. Then...

He could feel his legs. _He could move his legs!_ His mind, also, must have been intact, or would he even have been thinking these thoughts?

"It is not so easy to Hollow an undead as all that."

Those words snapped his eyes open- caused his helm to turn. His vision wasn't what it used to be, now- the corners of his eyes rimmed with fog, even beyond the limited vision afforded by his armor. Of course- bodies rotted quickly. Even a short time dead, certain things would never work correctly without...

The souls and humanity of others, as a _meal_. Oscar shivered.

His ... _companion_? Acquaintance, was still sat next to him. Crosslegged, leaning on her knees, regarding him with a baleful stare that he'd seen on the faces of so many a Hollow. Beneath her, the cast-iron ball of destruction he'd only seen a glimpse of, before.

Dare he even speak with her? He dared. His voice sounded... odd. Older. Deeper, with flem. "How would you even know?" Oscar blustered. "I'd failed. I'd been hopeless. _Am_ hopeless. There was no escape from this cell, not for me-"

The undead raised her hand, stopping him- then just as meaningfully, that same hand pointed at the wall she'd... opened. "It's hard to kill hope- even if you are a fool with a fool's mission."

A snort, as Oscar attempted to pull himself upright. His armor was dented, and oddly so. Quite uncomfortable. He could manage, though, especially since it was nowhere near the piercing pain as before. "If I didn't know I deserved those insults, I'd have my satisfaction from you for them."

She laughed, then. A hellishly gross sound, one that spoke of maggot-chewed lungs that should never have been able to make sound, let alone cackle. "It makes two of us, doesn't it, Sir Oscar of Astora? We have a pilgrimage to make."

Inside his helm, Oscar gaped- almost stopping, when he felt his own flesh peeling away from the inside of the visor. "How do you know my- how do you know my name, and mission?"

Her humor faded, that malicious face becoming almost passive- if such a desiccated corpse could possibly appear so. "There's a bonfire, downstairs in the courtyard. We'll refill your flask, and talk there. Come."


	3. A Fragile Pact

The bonfire was important.

To the remaining humans, it was a sign that the world had yet to fall apart entirely. To the Undead, it was one of the few sources of warmth they could ever feel again. To both, the bonfire offered rest, restoration, even solace in a world that was unraveling at the seams.

It did more than that, as well. Time flowed oddly, when away from the bonfires. Distance followed suit. Bonfires were... safe, in a way that even continuity and matter could not ignore. Every village, as what passed for time progressed, saw the need to erect one in the square and assign a Keeper.

For such a place of sanctuary, its creation was simple enough- an undead, skewered by a twisted wrought-iron blade, then set ablaze, ideally with a life sworn to tend and maintain the flames. At least, that was the simple way of looking at it. The more you looked into the 'why's and 'how's the more complex it came.

Some speculated, for example, that the skewered sacrifice still remained alive, burning for eternity under that red-hot edge as ashes, for no undead could ever die. The more powerful bonfires, the kindled flames, oft served as a beacon for wayward Humanity and funneled it all into those that kept the flames lit.

No, when speaking of Humanity in this instance, one did not mean 'people'. But that's irrelevant, at least for the moment.

* * *

This was not one of those rare, maintained flames. It was nothing more than a sword in the earth, around which a small pile of ash and bones were clustered, but it would do for the duo that sat around it now in the Asylum's courtyard.

One had removed his helmet, revealing blonde, short-cut hair over green-tinged skin, both patchy and the latter bruised. Of course, he had perished and begun to rot, briefly. Should this have occurred moments earlier it would have revealed a young, hale and hearty man with the features of a valiant knight- cheekbones neither gaunt nor full, with a noble's nose and light brow. There were still hints of that, though few.

The other was less-easy to describe, save by mention of decay. 'Embalmed' was a phrase that sprang to mind, along with 'moth-eaten' and 'beef jerky'.

Putting down his dented helm, the knight seemed quite done with inspecting himself. "You said you would speak of what you know. So speak."

The curt demand was followed with a wary, sidelong look from the more-rotted of the two. She had been busying herself, waving the flask upside down over the glistening embers of that bonfire to refill it with blessed estus. To her credit, the undead did not cease her work; instead turning back to the flames with concentration. She did sound irritated, however, as much as one could tell through a rotted voicebox. "I know your name, I know your prophecy, and a lot more besides. Am I not afforded some leeway, in the saving of your life?"

There was a snort, from the knight, as he replaced his helm- buckling the clasps. "By letting a ball roll through the walls of my cell? I should hardly think it was anything you did deliberately."

But the sigh from his acquaintance said he was wrong, that she'd meant something else. "I remained with you, while you died, and reawoke. That saved your life. More than that, your mind."

Oscar's eyes narrowed. It was hard to ignore how... sticky, they felt now. "As much as I appreciate the gesture, I fail to see how-"

"-Should I not have done so, you would have died in that cell and reawoken alone- myself having fled the place by a method that cannot be used more than once and embarking on a journey that would not allow me to return in time to circumvent the loss of your sanity and self. You did not Hollow immediately, and would not have- a month, Sir Oscar. A month of wandering those halls, looking for an escape that would not come save by flinging yourself from the edge of the cliffside and into unknown oblivion, far from ever accomplishing your imposed purpose."

The knight gaped, in his helm. She must have known it, by the way he spluttered after a moment's pause. "R-Ridiculous! Who are you to speak like that, to say for certain what might or would have happened? Gods, woman, but I am not some slack-jawed gullib-"

"-Thou who art Undead, art chosen. In thine exodus from the Undead Asylum, maketh pilgrimage to the land of the Ancient Lords. When thou ringeth the Bell of Awakening, the fate of the Undead thou shalt know." There was only the slightest hint of disdain, in the Undead's tone. Oscar missed it, being so busy with his shock.

To his credit, Oscar did not speak immediately after. It was only once the desiccated woman re-plugged the estus flask and placed it between them that he braved his voice, cut the silence. "That... that doesn't make sense. No new Undead have been sent to the Asylum in centuries, yet that prophecy only rose to knowledge in the past few decades. You shouldn't know that. You shouldn't know my name, you must have been here for-"

"The entire time." There was no mistaking the grimace on her face. "The first century was the worst. A hundred years of waiting. Knowing what would come kept me sane, kept me going, but those years... Once I discovered I could die, and skip periods of this incarceration through being too dead to experience them, it became easier-"

"Who are you? What are you?" Oscar was unsure whether to be repulsed, afraid, or sympathetic. This was nothing he had any experience with.

In response, the undead woman stood, slowly- swept a small key from the earth and placed it back into the waist of that ragged loincloth, before stretching. He recognized that one- it had been in his cell.

"I would rather not speak my name. But if you must have something to call me, we could do worse than Seer. It is a lie, of course- but not one far from the truth. Look you, Sir Oscar- we have a mission. I need you- your skill with a sword far outweighs anything I can do with my fists, and the world we go to is hard and violent. I would fail, without you. Will you come with me?"

Her hand came downwards, palm open. For just a fleeting instant, for just a frozen moment, there was silence- the helmed knight inspecting it with confusion, unsurety, even disgust. But what did he have that was any less insane than this? Following a damn prophecy, a story, to the most hellish place on the Astoran peninsula in search of some way to cross the Gray Seas and reach forgotten Lordran?

Oscar's gauntlet raised to meet it, and the Seer pulled him to his feet.

* * *

The bulk was enormous. A sweating leathery carapace wrapped around folds and folds of bellyfat, its thighs as round as barrels. Even its teeth were exaggerated, the fangs that extended from where a human might find their canines were each as thick as a hand at the middle, yet sharp as a snake's. Only those wings, those silly and tattered batlike things extending from its back, were understated- its antlers were far larger, like tree roots from its head.

This was the hulking thing that had sent him crashing through the roof of the asylum?

But of course, the bulk did have muscle. It shone in that wild club it swung, seemingly an entire carved tree trunk on the end of a polearm shaft. There was no denying, the Demon of the Asylum was a potent foe. The knight and the Demon had been at it for minutes now, with the Seer watching calmly from above upon a balcony, where they had passed through some mysterious, but incredibly thick fog.

Oscar didn't dare try his shield arm, as the club swung down yet again in an explosion of broken stone from the floor- footwork did not come as easily to the weighed-down knight, but it was a far better prospect than seeing his arm broken from impact. Diving out of the way to the left, he rolled across his back and fell into a crouch he sought to stand from- only to crouch again as that too-heavy weapon came whistling overhead.

"Move left! Left! Get to the rear!"

The Seer's advice, from above. Oscar did not bother trying to stand, instead charging as a bull in the direction she called. The bastard was already raising that club yet again- if he attempted to swing from this position, there'd be no chance he wasn't caught out.

It crashed behind him, just as he lost his balance and turned it into a forward roll. Loss of speed- not good, he was slow as it was in the face of such a foe.

Worse yet, the demon seemed to speak human tongue- evidenced by when his efforts took him into the open palm of one, meaty hand that grabbed him around the chest. He was being lifted! Not to those teeth, gods, no, not to that maw!

Raising his blade, a hasty chop came down in a panic against the offending wrist- and in thanks, he was thrown. Tossed, like a children's toy, to tumble across the ground until he hit the far wall.

Oscar was almost ashamed, of the pained squeak his lungs made. Almost.

"Good!"

Good?! What about this was good, that the Seer saw? He was being thrashed wholesale, and even now the beast had neared him, was preparing to paste him against the concrete like a cowpat...

But above him, for one sweet second, he saw her. Not standing on the balcony above him, but midair- one of the Hollows' rusted shortswords in hand, angled downwards from overhead. The demon did not look up- it couldn't have, not in time.

The Seer landed among the Demon's antlers, kneeling among them for balance, the sword buried to its hilt through the cap of the demon's skull. The roar was deafening, as Oscar got to his feet- the demon's pained thrash almost dislodging her as she clung for dear life against the anchored blade, whipping this way and that. The old and rusted metal could not help but bend, and Oscar saw the creature reaching up, wrath etched into its toothy maw and beady eyes...

In the next moment, he was climbing, unthinking, one hand gripping the stinking carapace in its front as his sword arm reared back...

And sunk his blessed blade into its neck, from where a massive key dangled.

* * *

"You're covered in demon's blood."

"Could be worse. I could be covered in brainfluid, like yourself."

The key had been retrieved. Fit those double doors that the demon guarded, but massive and imposing as the reinforced metal was, it was no match for two determined undead. Now, they were outside.

For Oscar, it was blissful- his short time in the Asylum had been nothing but harrowing. So glad was he to feel the cold air unobstructed, that he called for a moment to sit and rest on the chilly earth, regardless of the fact they had done so only moments ago at the bonfire, after their battle.

Besides- despite the barren nature of its land, the view was quite beautiful. He simply hadn't seen it before, with the ominous shape of the asylum marring its landscape.

"I'm sure cleanliness would do me few favors, now, Sir Oscar. You, though-"

"I'm sure when I say I slew a Demon, others will quite understand."

"Twas I who pierced its skull."

"I think you missed the brain. Small target."

Oscar's chuckle was cut short, as he looked at his... yes, compatriot. She did not look amused- instead, she was frowning.

With furrowed brow, he lowered the flask of estus- tilted his head, as his free hand snatched up his helm. "We've succeeded. I thought you'd be elated, Seer." But this only served to deepen her scowl. "It was no foe I would take pleasure in fighting. Merely a creature, doing the job it accepted long ago. Now come- we cannot stay here long."

As she stood, Oscar followed suit- hiding his frustrated expression beneath a knight's steel mask. "If you're all doom and gloom, Seer, this will be an incredibly long trip. How do you propose we get off this cliffside, at any rate? The drop is sheer. Even we Undead wouldn't-"

He was interrupted, by a pointing finger- one that followed a black shape in the sky, either distant or incredibly small. "That is how."

She was already walking forwards, towards the highest edge of the cliff. He could not help but follow, looking where she pointed.

He could not help but stare as the shape grew larger, larger, yet larger, wings, talons and a beak coming into plain view.

Sir Oscar of Astora could not help but cower and scream as the shape dove towards them, and leveled out to snatch them off the earth with outstretched claws.


	4. A Truth, A Lie and A Paradox

TheShadowofmordor

"So far, I like how this story is looking and I can't wait to see what you have in store for all the other companions. Though I have a question: will you do what Dying Tickles does and save some of the bosses and NPC's like Havel, Tarkus, Kirk, and Queelag or will only the companions like Solaire and Tarkus that will be saved?"

 _I'm glad you're enjoying it! Once things really get rolling, the 'companions' may not feel the same way you do. XD_

 _Will companions and bosses survive? ...Maybe. I would say every character has the 'potential' of surviving this, but knowing the exact outcome for certain is something I really don't do. I know the ending, I know the events that transpire to get there, but I set very little in stone so that characters can make their own decisions, in a way. Our Seer is a pragmatic sort, and the more bodies on her side the better in that respect, but she's also the type to 'hold someone else's grudge', if that makes any sense. If it doesn't, it eventually will._

 _When it comes down to it, what characters deserve to be saved? It's all a matter of perspective, really._

* * *

The method of travel had never been one that surfaced as a possibility in Oscar's mind. In the talons of an overgrown crow, soaring high enough to splatter over the desolate landscape of a fading flame? No, no thank you.

The Seer seemed to take to it like a duck to water, though- her stern expression (so much as could be told under the decay) never faltered, only looking partially amused once her compatriot had ceased expressing his wordless concern.

"Have you gotten it out of your system now?" She yelled above the howling winds, and the sound of air flowing through Oscar's helm to occasionally emit a piercing whistle whenever he looked down. No matter how close the two Undead were to each other, yelling was necessary. "We're in no danger!"

"How can you even know that? The birdbrain probably thinks of us as food!" That was the retort, of course- but was it just his imagination, or did the talons around him carelessly slacken just for a moment?

"Birds are smarter than you would think, Sir Oscar! Crows especially! They have to be! Flight is no simple matter, after all!"

"You can't be serious, Seer!"

"They have songs, a form of language, and understand camaraderie! Some even have jokes!"

As if in agreement with the Seer, the Crow let free a massive, gutteral caw and banked through the deep fog, hiding the world in gray mist.

* * *

It parted, eventually. An hour of seeing nothing, the crow guided only by instinct and memory, the two beneath helpless to overturn its decisions, ending in a flash of vivid greens, blues and grays.

Dully, Oscar could hear the Seer say something breathlessly. The name of a place- but it escaped his senses, whisked away by the winds. He would have asked her to repeat it, if he hadn't seen the walls.

They were massive. Built along cliffsides to add yet more height to their imposing shape, they were not walls built for humans or undead to dwell in- they were walls that could only have been built to defend from mythical beings, or even gods. They towered, thousands of feet high, the buildings within sometimes only barely cresting the tops. Far, far below them, nestled in the portions of cliff that the walls did not encompass, were houses- small stone buildings, packed tightly with nary a space for an alley.

But it was soundless. Motionless. No smoke curled from chimneys, nothing moved in the streets. A dozen dead villages, in the shadow of a dead city's walls.

It would have been found grim to Oscar, had he a moment to contemplate it. Instead, he found that physics had taken a turn along with their impromptu winged horse- the crow suddenly banking left again, hard, turning it into a swooping dive that cut through a canopy of trees and towards one out-jutting cliffside full of ruins.

Oscar could not help but scream again, thinking something had attacked them or the bird had taken a change of heart- but instead, they leveled off, were let go as the crow soared upwards to alight on a tree branch.

The landing was not as bad as all that, really. Very little shock to the knees, but Oscar fell to his rear regardless. After a trip like that, few men or women would have been able to even stay seated, let alone upright.

Apparently, the Seer was one of those few, remaining standing after such a terrifying trip. Not only standing, but taking an active interest- a sad interest, if he judged her expression correctly.

"Well, we're still alive... I suppose in retrospect that was a foolish worry, wasn't it."

The Seer was silent.

Oscar tried again, brushing himself off and getting to feet that still shook in his boots. "Where are we, Seer? Can you really trust that crow to-

Ignoring him, bare feet took the walking corpse deeper into the ruins, to disappear in a doorway beyond. He would have followed her movements, perhaps even followed her himself, if it weren't for another voice. A sardonic, tired voice.

* * *

"We~ell. What do we have here? You two must be new arrivals."

… A warrior, if Oscar had to guess. He looked human enough, clad from neck to toe in chainmail and leather, with a longsword at his hip and a half-rusted heater shield at his back. No knight, but a mercenary or a soldier almost for certain.

He was dour, though, even in appearance, not simply demeanor. Unwashed charcoal hair plastered to his scalp, the eyes sunken from sleepless nights. Yet another side-effect of the curse; sleep was next to impossible, under its effects. It was rude to assume that was this warrior's reason, though.

Raising one leather glove in a greeting, Oscar turned to see if he could catch glimpse of the Seer. "Aye, we are that... Did you happen to see where my companion went?"

"She looked halfway Hollow, sir knight- perhaps best to leave her to it, she won't be without company here." Glumly, the chainmail'd man swirled a half-full bottle of estus in its flask- making the watery flames within dance and spin. "Let me guess... fate of the undead, right?"

"You know that as well? How many people learned of this bloody prophecy before Astora did?"

"Well, you're not the first to try it, if that's your meaning."

"It wasn't, but... I'm perplexed." Oscar almost spluttered, ignobly. "How did anyone go through without running afoul of the Jailer? That grotesque demon of chaos?"

The warrior only sighed. "I saw no living demon on my departure- but stranger things have happened. Nevertheless, you'd have done better to stay in the asylum."

Oscar's eyebrow raised, inside his helm. That felt strange as well, after his 'death'. As if the muscles didn't quite want to work correctly. "Too late, now."

"Too late now indeed. ...Well, since you're here..." The warrior upended his estus, draining the flask with a bored expression. "Let me help you out. There are, actually, two bells of awakening. One's up above, in the Undead Church. The other is far, far below. In the ruins of the base of Blighttown."

"So not only was the prophecy bloody everywhere, it was also bloody inaccurate. Wonderful."

"Bell of awakening, bells of awakening, close enough. Ring them both, and something happens! Brilliant, right? Not much to go on, but I have a feeling that won't stop you." Oscar nodded his assent, grudgingly, but the mercenary was already waving him off. "So! Off you go."

"Wait, hold on, my man, won't you-"

"It is why you came, isn't it? To this cursed land of the undead?" The laugh he gave was chilling. It was not in malice, but instead it was a hint of the morose, desolate lack of humor and crushing despair that could come with purposeless immortality. "Best get on with it."

And he'd rendered the knight speechless in one, short moment. It was obvious; the mercenary had no interest in more conversation. "Right- right then. I suppose I had best find my-.. my-... her. I had best find her."

"You do that."

* * *

The shrine was quite small, if you didn't consider anything beyond the ruins themselves to be a part of it. That was, of course, what the ruins turned out to be; an old shrine, falling apart through age and disuse. On the outskirts of it was one small building, a roofless place where a building once was, and a well that was little more than a tube of stone half-sunk into earth that gave no more water.

Why a well was here, on the edge of a cliff where finding water should have been almost impossible, Oscar had no idea.

All that paled to its centerpiece, though. Surrounded by a ring of what were either stone steps, or stone benches, once upon a time, was a Bonfire; one that was a far cry from the sad, dwindling flames he'd seen in the Asylum. Here, the edges of the fire licked the hilt, not merely sputtering halfway up the blade, and the warmth was a beautiful thing indeed. Even the estus he pulled from it for his bottle seemed cleaner, brighter.

It made the shrine picturesque, if not for the occasional dried corpse that he found lying forgotten among the stones.

There was no trace of the Seer yet, but he did find someone else in the buildings- the one closest to the Wall.

"H-hello, there. I believe we are not acquainted."

Oscar must have looked a fright, in his dented armor and his tabard stained with brackish brown demonsblood. The least he could try to do was offset it with politeness. "I suppose we are not- I'm only recently arrived myself. Sir Oscar, of Astora. ...You'll have to forgive my appearance, the trip here was arduous."

"Petrus, of Thorolund."

Ah. That explained the blonde bowlcut, the the leather scales on his brigandine mail. A cleric, of the Way of White, Allfather Lloyd's priests and priestesses. But what cleric carried a morningstar? Most did go for the blunter weapons when required, as to kill quickly rather than shed blood, but a morningstar had spikes. Odd.

"Well met then, Petrus. I apologize, but I'm on a small task to find a... friend, of mine. Had you business with me?"

It was impossible to miss the raise of that soft-spoken cleric's brow. "I was going to ask the same of you- I was to meet a few fellow countrymen on their way here, for a... most important quest."

Oscar chuckled, in his helm. At the very least, he wasn't the only one lost in the shrine. "Fraid not, good cleric. I do hope you find them, this seems a chilly place to stand and wait."

Petrus only nodded, licking at the corner of his mouth and glancing out what remained of the doorway. "Quite- but as we are both on our ...own... missions, perhaps it is best if we keep our distance. Ah... no offense meant."

Very chilly, and a flimsy excuse to rudely say he did not wish to be bothered by the battered knight. Oscar stood, and stared, considering a retort before deciding against it- only turning to leave, as Petrus shuffled his feet.

* * *

"There you are."

The second building over had been empty, the first time he'd searched it. What might once have been a small church was now empty, its pews long rotted, and the recessed floor covered over by rainwater inches deep was all that remained of it. That, and a statue- one of a woman hale and hearty, crown about her head, gifting a sword to one babe cradled in her arms. Despite the decay around it, the statue was in remarkably good condition- nary a piece of stone had worn away its detail, nor did ivy coat it like much the rest of the shrine.

There was an addition now, though. An old, leathery undead was slouched, against the statue's pedestal- one desiccated hand on its foot, the other clasped over its- her- face. Oscar could see she was upright, but only barely- shoulders shaking. Sorrow? For this prayerless shrine?

"Seer. Are you-"

"I'm- I'm fine." Her words were chopped, broken, but held together by sheer grit. He'd caught her at a difficult time. Given the position they were in, Oscar reasoned, it was perhaps best not to pry.

"Are we to be off, then? Aside from the bonfire, this place is dour and confusing. Its inhabitants are even worse, in that regard."

"You would still travel with me, Sir Oscar? It would be a more arduous task than the one you set before yourself, and we are both free of the asylum." The leathery woman's brow furrowed, searching his helm for any clue of feeling.

To that end, at least the Knight's response was quick. "Though I might not understand you, Seer, there is strength in numbers, and the other able fighters at this shrine seem... unsuitable. That warrior near the flames seems to have given up on life, and Petrus-"

"-Would be a murderer, and conspirator to worse."

The interruption stopped Oscar dead, even as the Seer stood fully, letting her hand fall free of the statue's foot. There were no tears- but then, could an undead even cry? "I'm- I'm sorry, _what_?"

The Seer paused, seemed almost shocked at her own actions before shaking her head. "Never mind. He's- you shouldn't know that. Not yet."

But it was too late, she had his full attention now. His rage as well, no less. Sure, Petrus had been both unhelpful and entirely cold, but that was no excuse to speak of a cleric as if he were the worst of men. "You cannot speak such sordid tales of others and then immediately retract them, madam! How can y-"

But this seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as suddenly she turned back to him- anger written on her desiccated features, one long, gnarled finger pointing accusingly.

"Two years past, you took a great, sinister joy in your sparring session with Lieutenant Hanren, striking him through the leather of his gauntlet and causing him a broken wrist. When you were five years of age, you threw your sister Marjole into the pond near your house, hoping she would drown, that you did not need to share your bedroom any longe-"

"Shut up."

"-At seven, as a squire, you were deliberately lazy in your buckling the saddle of Sir Arnheim's horse that when he rode it, he slid sideways off the horse. The panicked creature lifted its hoof and crushed his-"

" _Shut up!_ "

And so she was silent, for a few minutes while the knight seethed in shock- but she was walking towards him through the water flooding the floor, her eyes fixed on his. Oscar could say nothing. How could he? It was the truth. He was ashamed of it, and so much a better man than he had been a boy, but it was the truth. Every part. Not even the finger pointed now, and still he could not move.

"How... how can you possibly know that..."

"I am the Seer, Oscar. That is not my name, not my powers, nor my function, but it is what I am, to you. ...I know of what it is I speak of you, of Petrus, of all in this land, and I have a purpose that must be fulfilled."

She was only an inch from his helm, now, those fetid white eyes burrowing into his through the visor, yet he still could not bring himself to look away or speak.

"It is a complicated and difficult thing I set out to do, Sir Oscar, and I would not hide how taxing it might be, both physically, and emotionally. ...I would very much like your aid. Despite all you have done, you are a good man, and no coward- but should you agree to help me, you must follow my every order. Do you understand? I must have an oath, knight."

"I... I need to... Need to consider-"

"An. **Oath**. Or we must part ways."

Silence reigned. Not even the still-rippling water of the forsaken shrinehouse made noise, and for all the world it seemed as it had been abandoned all over again were one to listen in. Calmness. Peace.

And then it was broken once more.

Perhaps it was insane, to give this much. She could have been a madwoman (in fact, she likely was mad after all), but being both undead and in possession of what she knew... who wouldn't be? He was a knight. She was a Lady, ostensibly, even if her appearance left much to be desired in court, with power desired in a Priestess or even Queen. Despite his misgivings- could he really leave someone with such dangerous knowledge alone? She'd had need of him in the Asylum, and want of him here. Very well, then. There were worse and less honorable things, to watch for a Seer's safety and ensure they did not go fully mad.

"And so do I oath it, Seer. I will be your shield, and blade. ...But if Petrus is such a thi- will become such a thing, I would dearly like to see him dead afore it occurs."

Was that just his imagination? Or did she smile, if only for just a moment? It was only a glimmer, but that Hollow's face still managed a warm, if broken, smile through chewed lips and yellow teeth. For some reason, Oscar felt as if he had been lightened, and burdened, all in one go.

"So it shall be, Sir Oscar. ...But not yet. First, he must reveal his treachery, then it will be justified. Such are the rules."

It was odd, how having such a rule vanished a small measure of concern from him. But what of the one Petrus intended to kill?


	5. A Journey Begun in Pique

"Alright then, Seer. If you would live up to your name- what is our first course of action?"

The grimace on her face was plain- evidently, he'd caught the undead out at uncertainty. "If we would be of equal use to one another, I'll need a blade. And a talisman, for miracles. ...And as little as it matters with my current form, something more concealing to wear would be nice."

Oscar snorted. "The Demon held a sizable well of lifestuff, I could... suck up my pride and barter a prayercloth from the Cleric. As for an edge-"

"Not just any sword will do, Sir Oscar. I'll need a rapier, or estoc- a long thrusting blade, with sizable hilt. To that end, a blacksmith. Titanite litters this land as well, we'd do well to find some for ourselves."

Titanite? In Oscar's helm, his brows raised- but of course it did. Lordran, the home of Gods, would of course be festooned with the gods' own metal, it only made sense. The stuff was mythical, in its ability to create durable arms and armor whose metal withstood even age itself. Such weapons were said to slice through steel as if it were oil, and in legends were eternal Dragons felled by such blades. Yes, they would do well to find some.

"Not here, though. I've scoured the grounds and only found a few trinkets, aside from a few crystallized, forgotten souls. ...The graveyard outside this building is haunted, be warned. I was quiet and careful enough to not disturb them, but beware the piles of bones out there. The skeletons are not as dead as they seem, and I suspect necromancy."

Oscar shivered. "So if not there, then..."

"Up the pathway, through the nearby settlement's aqueduct and into the settlement itself. The Church of... the _Undead Church_ should be reachable through there, and with luck, we'll be able to get our bearings, find a smith, and locate that first accursed Bell."

"With luck? You're not sure?"

The Seer grumbled, as Oscar shuffled impatiently in his armor, wondering just what they were in for. "No, I'm not sure, Oscar. In the lands outside Lordran, the flow of time and space is warped. ...You might not have noticed this; the Way of White tries quite hard to keep most men none the wiser. Within the walls of Lordran itself, though, it is entirely possible to stumble upon a man's corpse a full hour before you speak with him- undead or not. I cannot know who or what is where, in this place, only where they _could_ be. We could be stonewalled before we even begin."

With an already-fatigued sigh, the Knight paused to take that new revelation in- it seemed ludicrous, of course it did. But between all the strangeness that had already happened, and the questions about the other arrivals to Lordran he'd had before, it seemed as likely an answer as any. Sir Oscar was learning to take much at face value, in the Seer's company. "I... see. Well at the very least, we'll not accomplish much standing about. Fetch what you've found, and I'll... speak to the false cleric about a talisman, for you. Pray tell, what deity do you follow?"

"A dying one."

Oscar couldn't help but stare even more, at the suddenly-despondent Seer- before turning with a barely-suppressed snort, to make good his word. What else could he have said?

* * *

Souls had been the world's currency for some time, alongside coinage. When a creature- or even a Hollow- died, its lifestuff did not vanish entirely into the ether. Instead, those nearby felt its transferal to them, a rush of invigorating energy that, with practice and the help of the bonfire, could be put to use on their bodies. Legends spoke that those who fought Dragons caused their bodies to grow immense, though among the human kingdoms they tended to be traded for goods and services.

Coin had been introduced to keep the deaths and murders of others to a minimum, and it had worked for a time- but with the Curse, slowly currency had become meaningless in the wake of a tide of violence. It was, after all, hard to pickpocket souls from another person without that same person's death, and giving souls to another was as simple as breathing to most countrymen.

It turned out Petrus was none the wiser of what they'd discussed, thankfully, and so it was easy enough to convince the Thorolund man to part with a talisman- clerics often carried several, to dispense among the faithful. It was little better than a small square of silken cloth wrapped and tied about a prayer bead, but it would do. The Seer had been grateful, which was a nice change, for it had cost almost a full half of Oscar's reserves, if they did not count the crystallized souls the Seer had found on the abandoned and unclaimed dead.

With that well in hand, the two were en route- the dented knight still with his sword and shield, the ragged near-Hollow sporting a decaying leather bag over one shoulder and a talisman in her right hand. The Seer had assured him, that this would not be easy- and indeed she was right. Just out of the jurisdiction of the shrine, not more than a few hundred feet around the side of the cliff on a narrow path, a number of hollows had made their own, impromptu territory.

That was the only word for it, really. 'Territory'. Bereft of a target to chase, a Hollow would simply stand watch, looking for its next victim. Sure, some might howl at the heavens, or clutch at their heads, but these were few and far between- the ones here, clad in half-destroyed, rusty arms and leather armor, only watched from the glowing red eyes sat in those recessed, dessicated sockets. One might assume the Hollows were entirely mindless, but not all were- many retained the skills and learned actions they'd had in life, if only to more easily best their prey, fighting with weapons almost as well as any trained warrior could. Such errors in judgment had taken the lives of many a watchman or soldier.

It was eerie, to see so many now when they'd seen none from above.

"There's nothing else for it Seer, we'll be in the mess of it, there. What can you do, with that cloth?"

Hugging the back wall, the two watched warily- the Knight peering from around the side, the Seer peering from around himself. A Hollow's sight was not good, but if they even caught a whiff of their Humanity, there would be a bloodbath. Oscar had died but once, and his body still held much of life.

"Nothing suitable, I'm afraid. This is bladework."

"No healing? Nothing?"

"I d- that is not my deity's purview."

"I see. Stay here, then, it'll be easier to do this without watching where I swing."

The Seer nodded, as Oscar brought up his blue-painted shield- his blade glinting an almost golden-white in what sunlight managed to flicker between the great walls of Lordran.

* * *

His steel-booted foot raised, slamming into one Hollow's chest as his sword buried itself in another's ribs, entirely through a plate of rusted metal. Its howls of hatred, of hunger, raised even as it fell backwards, teetered over the edge of the cliff before dropping into the swirling mists below. Sir Oscar of Astora paid it no mind; he was already raising his shield and withdrawing the blade as his second target fell to its knees, and the feeling of impact and wash of heat over his enchanted kite told him he'd blocked a thrown firebomb just in time.

A good thing, too. Porcelain things with rope wicks, filled with black powder and strong alcohol before being lit and thrown, firebombs were more than dangerous on a direct hit. They were being thrown from above.

With fires still blazing on the front of his shield, one haphazard spin took his blade through the kneeling hollow's neck, and clashed it with another's battleaxe before they'd even swung. Oscar was declared a knight with reason, after all- not simply gifted his armor because of family ties. He was a true fighter, and against cursed men like these, he was a wolf among sheep.

His helm came forward and cracked against the axe-wielding hollow's jaw, where it fell backwards to join its brother in the mist- and Sir Oscar dropped into a run, his shield raising overhead to save him from yet another unerringly-thrown bomb.

The Hollow never had the intellect to dodge, so busy it was with the mechanical concentration required to aim and throw. At the top of the path, next to the aqueduct, Oscar's rushing shoulder took it a full foot away from the edge before it even started to fall.

The Astoran wasn't even exerted; such was the curse of unlife. It did, indeed, have its boons. Less so, the sound of clapping from behind him, as he could hardly tell if the Seer was applauding in jest or honesty.

He hadn't expected himself to do so well.

* * *

"So why is this little shrine- and attached graveyard- only accessible from this aqueduct? You seem to know much of this place."

"It isn't, Sir Oscar. Not really. The shrine we came from is fifteen miles out from the slums, closer to New Londo rather than this settlement."

"Explain, if you would."

They splashed through what amounted to sewers, now. What was once an aqueduct, used to ferry clean water, had grown filthy with moss and mold over the fallen dead that had made their way inside. The smell was indeed unpleasant, and the Astoran was quite anxious to take his mind off of it. Why indeed would a shrine ever be connected to this place, as a walkway? Even were it clean, boots and feet would hardly do water any favors.

"I spoke that time and distance are transient, in this place. The land reorients itself, places draw closer to each other, and it has little rhyme nor reason. There is very little concept of a 'now' or 'here', where we stand."

"How?" Oscar's eyes were still attempting to adjust to the dark. Underneath, there was the loud squeak of a frightened rat and the sound of skittering.

"The many bonfires, in this place. They draw closer together, huddling to each others' warmth in the fading flame. Time and distance means little to the bonfires, and they warp and twist what lies around them in order to connect more closely. Often, each one can even be from a different decade entirely. They are almost eternal, in a way. Recycled time, I believe you could call it.

"...So the actions we take here, or took in the Asylum. They have no real past or future?"

"They do. Or rather, they did, or will eventually. One in particular will be immediate, if all goes according to plan- but everything leading up to it is unknowable. Some may stumble after us, to still find a hill of hollows. Others might even glimpse you fighting that battle there, to find that it is over and you are gone before they arrive. Some might even find the hills covered in grass, with nary a body remaining. When and where they think they are makes little difference."

Oscar could only imagine how deeply the filth of this place had seeped into his boots. "So in truth, you know very little of this place's layout. ...At least it explains how I could not see those Hollows, from the crow's claws. And how we are not the only ones, to venture from the Asylum."

The Seer sighed, from behind him. "Would that it were otherwise. There are ways of controlling the warping of this world, but they are beyond me. Beyond all but a small handful of men and women, in fact. The occasional enchanted tool does allow toying with it to some extent, but- not to any great effect, and never permanently."

"I see- Oh! Daylight, at last. ...Let's get out of this damnable tunnel."

* * *

They had ventured through the great Wall, that surrounded the shrine. That much was obvious. On the immediate other side, the enclosure was filled to the brim with small, empty houses and the occasional vacant shop- many doors already rotted away, while others seemed steadfastly locked.

A dead village, nestled within the massive walls of a fortress that barely matched it. In addition to the madness, it seemed to be built above yet another, older village far below- as if the entire place had been sliced in half, to be laid on top of itself. At least they were up above; Oscar could see glittering flames and odd motions in the buildings below, impossible to make out through a darkness that was no mere shadow.

All this led yet more credence to the Seer's words- that the bonfires cared little for distance, and would drag the world closer together.

Here, at least, the sky was bright and inviting, even if the town was empty as a tomb. There were few bodies here, at least. When Hollows had sprung up among the populace, all the survivors ran- or eventually became one of the cursed, or both. None had a reason to remain in the towns and villages that dotted Astora. Of course this place was no different; the question was, where were the undead hiding, and what ambushes did they plan?

Better yet, where were they supposed to go?

"This place is a damn maze, Seer."

Turning the slit in his helm to peer at his companion, he watched as she leaned over the edge of one stone, flat roof to stare below as he had.

And then yelled in surprise with her, as a maggot-gnawed hand reached up from below, to grab her ankle.


	6. A Trial By Fire

**Unca Bob**

 **Kindle the bonfire indeed. I like what you're doing here and how you're doing it. I hope to see more soon because things so far promise quite the story ahead.**

(and)

 **IlliterateLibrarian935**

 **Genuinely really enjoying this story! Keep up the great work!**

 _Well I hope you two stick around, as your reviews made me smile quite a bit. If this story is half as spectacular as I hope it's going to be, it will be worth the wait.  
_

 _Of course, it is entirely possible that someone's guessed who the Seer is, and may spoil it beforehand, but them's the breaks. Consider this a plea to keep your guesses well hidden, till the truth comes out._

 _And aye, the truth will out. It always does._

* * *

Hollows needed more credit, they really did. Lying in wait rather than hunting alone, that hand which grabbed the Seer's ankle was only the first. The flat stone roof they were on apparently held a balcony below it, where the bastards had hidden themselves, flat up against the wall.

Three. No, four of them, gripped the edge of the roof and began to pull themselves up. Much like the Seer, they wore little- only rags, shredded remnants over their taut-drawn leathery, fatless skin. Unlike her, each one was armed.

Dealing with the one that had gripped her was a simple matter- a knight's boot upon the wrist forced it to release her whether it felt pain or no, the bastard dropping back to the balcony seconds before it could cut her tendon with a rusted dagger. The second-nearest, already upon the roof with an Undead's alacrity, caught the rim of his shield across the gaping mess where its nose used to be.

"Oscar! _Above_!"

The knight withdrew the rim of his shield where it had half-buried in the hollow's face- and rather than raise it as he should have, he raised his helm to look, instead. A bad instinct, as his face was immediately awash with burning pain. Yelling, the Knight stumbled back, only to find his tattered and bloodstained tabard gripped by the hand of what could only have been a Hollow-

"Firebombers. Unreachable. _Run_!"

Not a Hollow. The Seer, pulling him away from the ledge and leading him blind through a growing throng of the undead- "Swing right... Now!" -that were far too close to his liking. A haphazard swing of his sword bit, and deep, if the sound of his assailant were any judge. This... this was torment. Running through an unfamiliar city, fighting a horde he could not see, under fire from above, with only the Seer's guidance to tell him when and where to swing?

"On right! Now!" The solid 'thunk' of his shield battering away a hollow's seeking blade only told him he'd saved them for another scant few seconds. "Up!" Legs still churning underneath him, he hit stairs and stumbled- only to feel the entire path of these second-and-third-story rooftops quake and shudder with a gasp from the Seer. "Stay down!"

There was a roar, tremendous and unending- a wash of heat, across his back, and it was then that he swore, should he ever die for good, it would not be by fire.

The stones shook again with a massive rush of air, as Oscar laid on his side- but soon after, he heard no more Hollows. Heard no more roars, felt no more shakes. Only a pair of hands undoing the clasps of his helm, a bottle placed at his lips.

"Estus, Sir Oscar. Drink."

* * *

"What the hell was that, Seer? I could see nothing."

"I guessed as much."

No longer did they lie at the foot of a base of stairs, leading from one roof to another by a walkway built atop a wall. This was some time past- where they had discovered a bonfire, hidden within a building just to the side of where they'd been running. The Seer must have seen it in their retreat, but there'd been no time to stop.

Now though, their assailants were naught more than char. Black marks of soot, upon the gray stones.

The Seer was busying herself with the bottle of Estus- upending the flask over the Bonfire's flames, to refill it and capture some of those wondrous cinders. She sounded grim, when she did deign to answer through yellowed, grimacing teeth. It was wonders what the stuff did- naught but a mouthful, and Oscar had once again been able to see.

"A firebomb from the scaffolding above caught you in the face- melted it solid. With you out of action, there was naught to do but run."

"I appreciate you not leaving me behind." Oscar tossed down the cloth he'd been using to wipe soot and spent powder from his helm, turning it about to inspect the damage. ...It was still dented, but nothing he could do about that this second.

Her grunt was noncommittal. "We would even now be running- but apparently this place plays host now to worse than Hollows."

"The roaring thing."

"A wyvern." Her tone grew yet more grim- something Oscar hadn't thought was possible.

"You're joking. They are supposed to be mythical!"

"I am not. Thankfully, it did not see us, and left after cleansing the bridge- but it bodes ill that they now do as they please. ...Not as mythical as they sound. Most Dragons are gone, true, but Wyverns are those men who would follow the path of the Dragon- eventually, they are no longer men at all. Nor are they Dragons, more's the relief."

"How can something that huge once have been a man? And breathing flame, I assume, from how my back damn near scorched?" Leaning forward despite the complaints from his dented plates, Oscar set his elbows on his knees.

"Old magic and tomes. Yet more symptoms to an underlying cause." The Seer sighed, as the flask was once again uprighted- orange swirls of captured flame stirring gently, in the vessel's belly.

"The curse. It escapes the curse, doesn't it."

That answer actually drew the Seer's attention, and for a brief instant, Oscar felt proud of himself for having an idea the Seer did not- but it was dashed even as he saw the roll of her head.

"Short-sightedly, I suppose so. Only Man bears the darksign, and a wyvern's flesh is not its own. Stone scales of titanite, embedded in the body for armor and transmuted into scales for full cover. They are not easy opponents."

"You speak as if you've fought one. What of long-sightedly?" Slowly, Oscar began to rebuckle his helm about his shoulders and head. It was gracious they had no mirror- he must have looked quite a fright, beneath it.

"We'll be much further in our quest before I can tell you much, Sir Oscar. Stifle your curiosity for now, would you?"

Oscar harrumphed, rebuked yet again. Yes, 'harrumphed'. He'd never in his life known the meaning of the word or attempted one, but that was the only word he could put to the sound. "What in the blazes are you so frightened of me knowing, Seer? I swore an oath to you! Let a Knight serve, will yo-"

But he was stopped, by her pensive expression- seen from over her hand which proffered the flask, full once more.

"Not you. This place. Lordran. It cannot know I am here. Not yet."

In his helm, his hand around the flask's neck, his brow furrowed with even further difficulty. "But there is no one else around. We are alone, Seer."

"I guarantee you we are not."

* * *

With Oscar once more mended, his vision restored, the more-wary duo found the goings much easier. Every now and then they were accosted, by those Hollows who'd found crossbows and remembered how to work them, or those who did not and made do with rusted blades and worn armor, but all in all nothing remotely close to the ambush with artillery support.

The main obstacle remained the area- nothing made sense, here, in these pathways. Jostling for space, the buildings were crammed together one after another, and not once did the Knight find himself anywhere near 'ground level'. Paths took through through buildings, even, with nary a way to circumvent the tight rooms and corridors that made fencing with groups of undead swordsmen just that tad bit more hairy.

They did manage to find a ladder that led them to where firebombs had been thrown from, earlier. That was a moment of revenge to relish.

It seemed forever, until they managed to stumble on what looked to be a watchtower, connected to one of the great Walls that encircled this place. Not even the door was level with the roof they walked on, though a staircase wound down the side to obvious aid in that department.

"Nice of the Bonfires to allow us a path, even as they mess about with the landscape."

The joke fell flat, however, on the Seer's ears- Oscar supposing, once again, that she had no sense of humor. The milky glare she held was pointed, though, and her arm raised to endorse the direction- the top of the stairs, one Hollow at the top in ragged chain and plate, with a rusted heater shield. One like many they'd dispatched this hour, but even though it had turned to spot them, it did not give chase. Instead, it huddled at the doorway to the watchtower, lying in wait near a stockpile of stacked barrels. It was not very well-hidden, all things told.

"A trap, I think. That barrel, there. ...Oily, as if someone's dumped the contents of a lamp over it. It's tipped over, near the top of the stairs."

Through Oscar's helm, he strained to see more fully. A difficult task, with his visor so narrow in vision. "Can't say, Seer. I trust your judgment, though- any solutions spring to mind beyond tripping it?"

There was another pause, long and thoughtful, before he noted a grim smile cross her even-more-grim features, and felt a round urn be pressed into his gauntlet.

"Aye, that I do. No more games, with the sanity-bereft."

A firebomb, stolen from the Hollows that had attacked them only hours past. It only took a solid second for Oscar to understand her meaning, a swipe of flint across steel and an underarm toss to carry it out in entirety.

Honestly, it was a good thing the hiding Undead was Hollow- he would have almost felt guilty, if the thing had sanity left.

The explosion rocked the stones they stood on, and Oscar could see little except bright, searing light. Shrapnel and old, dried gore spattered across the rooftops, the smoke thick and noxious enough to deny wind's effects for several minutes as the pair held their arms in front of their faces protectively. When it cleared, though...

It was obvious that barrel had been full of oil. For what reason, they'd never know, but the Hollow who'd set it up was assuredly never going to tell. The entirety of the tower's side was blasted open, the stones peeled outwards heedless of mortar, and all was covered in thick black soot. A satisfying effect.

"Ha- _ha_! And that is why relying too much on fire is such a bad idea! Remind me to bring wax to plug my ears with, for next time." Oscar grinned in his helm, as the final piece of high-flying Hollow bones pinged off his helmet. It was still a little difficult to not shout, so badly were his ears ringing.

Her response might as well have been underwater, it was so muffled to him. "If the door was locked, at least it is no longer. ...Should still be safe to climb the tower, regardless. These walls were meant to hold back more than simple demolitions." Walking forward cautiously, the Seer began to make her way up the winding, scorched stairs.

"Again, not even a chuckle. Would it kill you to be less dour, Seer? We do them little harm by putting them do-"

The protest was cut short, as she turned her head to look at him on the stairs. For a second, he expected an admonishment, yet more explanations of what he did not know, but instead her head turned back around.

What could Oscar do but sigh in his helm, and follow after her?

* * *

The top of the tower was much higher than he'd supposed. Rather than the staircase reaching the whole way, it had crumbled before allowing access to the roof. Another of those strange walls of fog eclipsed the only exit from this thing above- a shimmering wall of vapor that obscured all but the light passing through it. The Seer had explained that this, as well as the one from the upper balcony in the Asylum, was where the areas dragged by the Bonfires met through time, space or both. An odd thought, to think that they might walk so blithely into different areas or times.

At least the day seemed similar enough up here, atop a wall that seemed entirely too gods-damned high and wide enough to comfortably hold a horse and carriage with no issue. The sun, high in the sky, allowed for a similar view to that seen from the claws of the crow.

Breathtaking, really.

"A wide open space- nice, after those cramped rooms and rooftops. Hold a second, Seer, I think I see a ladder- perhaps at the top, I can survey even better."

"As it suits you, though I doubt it will be much aid." The Seer, for her part, began striding her bedraggled form along the wall- aiming to walk it to the second tower, on its opposing end. "What the Bonfires do may not be visible from a distance."

"It is worth a try, no less." Reaching through thick-growing ivy, Oscar laid a hand on the rungs of a ladder almost worn through. If it weren't bolted to the wall every few steps or so, there was no way it would ever hold the knight- but nothing ventured, nothing gained. Grunting with every pull, it took him higher- towards their entrance's towertop, his efforts echoing oddly in his helm.

It was no small ladder, after all, but Oscar had learned his lesson about climbing in Lordran, and well. When at the top, never assume you are safe; it was this knowledge that let him see, out of the corner of his helm's slit, a crossbow raising in the direction of the Seer's back below...

"Not likely."

...Only for his blade to crash down, and sever the bolt in the Hollow's weapon, the crossbow's string sending naught but plinters showering out of the weapon with a disappointed twang. There were two of them- one already abandoning its crossbow and reaching for a sword at its hip, the other staring in the direction of its quarry as if it hadn't yet occurred that its weapon had failed.

His sword dispatched the second through the neck; clashed with the first in a continuation of the swing, as an Undead's indefatigable blade pressed against a Hollow's hungry edge. Pressure, his beautiful blade biting deep into rust and grinding along the worn and broken sword, red and orange dust scattering across the stone battlement.

"She will not be your prey-"

" _Oscar_!"

His attention faltered, to the sound of the voice. The Seer's, panicked, and had he not turned to look, he'd never have seen what she'd turned and run from. Turned and tripped, running from, sprawling and scratching along the ground to gain as much distance as possible. Atop the opposite tower was a monster- a massive furred thing neither man nor bull, with an axe the size of-

Sudden give, in his weapon. Sudden pain, as his helm rang like a bell. It had stepped aside, felled him to the ground with an unexpected blow.

Dazed, confused, he turned back- only to see the Hollow raise its cruelly-broken blade's tip, and stab downwards with an indescribable look of relish.

" _ **Oscar**_!"


	7. The Undead Burg (Set Finale)

Pain.

Agony, as the Hollow's rusting and blunt point had struck him in the chest, skittered across the breastplate and lodged itself between it and the gardbrace covering his shieldarm's shoulder. His arm, dead to motion.

A well-maintained blade would have been more manageable, but the rust that flaked off in the wound as the Hollow withdrew simply set every nerve in Oscar's body on fire.

"Osca~ar!"

The terrified yell, from below, coupled with the roaring and stomping of something much, much too large to be anything other than Demon. Coming closer. Every footstep shook the wall, shook the tower he was lying atop of.

Down came the Hollow's blade again, and this time it met a far better sword, steel whining with the impact as sharpened and blessed metals scraped against misused and neglected iron. He'd seen it just in time, and it was only a knight's instinct that brought his sword to bear, locking his crosspiece against the Hollow's wrist.

Only instinct. The world was a blur of pain, of struggle. His mind, no longer considering that which did not matter, and in fact even that which was important struggled to gain a foothold. The Hollow raised, and struck again in a full swing- only to find its quarry had blocked that too with his blade's flat, in an explosive cascade of rust.

The Knight was forcing it back. Pushing himself upright, with nothing but the honed muscles of his abdomen- only to, just before the Hollow redoubled its force, roll onto his back and place one booted foot into the mad-thing's stomach. They both screamed.

Oscar screamed, because he'd rolled backwards onto his shoulder.

The Hollow screamed, because it had been kicked off the tower.

Below, the Minotaur screamed for it had been struck in the face with a screaming Hollow thrown from a towertop.

"Oscar! Hold on, there's no way it can get up here. Drink!"

The next thing he knew was a mouthful of cinders- of warming cinders that sent his decaying body tingling, mending in a sweet rush. It tasted of carbon, of ash, but it was Estus, and at this second it was the drink of the gods. She'd dumped the entire flask into his helm, letting it flow through his visor- a waste, but it was certainly a timesaver.

His shoulder felt good as new. Grabbing his shield in a rush from the tower's roof, Sir Oscar uttered a hurried 'thanks' as he pulled himself upright. At least the Seer had not misplaced the bag around her shoulders, on the climb up the ladder. Surprising she made it.

Spluttering and spitting a mouthful of cinders that did him no further good, Oscar pulled himself to his feet. "What- what in lost Izalith happened down there, Seer?" The Seer was backing away from the ledge however; the obvious worry in her movements giving her a vibrant feel and motion that belied her ragged shape.

"Demon atop the far tower. More muscles than our first, with an axe. About the same height. Half goat or bull-"

She was cut off, by a roar from below that almost shook them off their feet. "-I don't know if we can fight this, Oscar! One sweep of that axe and we'll be off the side, or worse!"

Not daring to near the edge either lest the beast try to climb, the Astoran twirled his longsword tentatively. "What of what you did with the first one. A leap from above, downward stab."

"That skull looked thicker than your blade is long."

"The neck, then. It'll be a narrow target, but-" And then Oscar was cut off by another roar, and both he and the seer fell to the tower's stone anew. The sun had, so briefly, blotted itself out with a silhouette...

The silhouette of a man many times too large to be human.

The Taur Demon. Or Minotaur, or Taurus, or whatever word suited it best. Twenty feet of nude and hairy, steaming muscle, thick as rebar wrapped around bone that, where it was exposed to the air, glistened with congealed pus. Hooves cracked the stone on its landing, its horns lowering with the impact to brace with the wobbling of the already half-exploded tower.

It even smelled of an anger and pain many centuries untreated and unfulfilled. It smelled like blood and steel.

How long did they stand there, shocked and frozen in the revelation of a being so obviously built for dealing death, that they failed to notice it raising its axe above head? Did Oscar fail to notice it, or was he simply too mesmerized? He would kick himself for it later, he knew, but never before had death had such an obvious visage- a flesh-filled and bare bull's skull, its jaw lined with snake's teeth.

Eyes of flame, beady and piercing.

"Roll!"

He did so, feeling the stones shatter just behind him as he hurled himself to one side from where he lay. Kept rolling, until he got to his knees, the tower beginning to groan and sway beneath him. Pushed up, and bee-lined for the Seer as the entire sky seemed to tilt. Sir Oscar said nothing, even as her fear changed to confusion, then worry, then back once more to fear when she felt the knight's right shoulder, thankfully the softer of the two, collide with her sternum...

To send them both over the edge.

* * *

Screaming. That was probably the Seer.

The sound of masonry, crashing down around their ears as the world itself seemed to fall, Oscar clutching the Undead lass as closely as they could so that they would not separate as they fell. The sound was likely the tower crumbling from its earlier explosion and surpassed capacity.

A roar above them, falling as well. Definitely the Taurus Demon.

It was the second, closer sound of snapping wooden boards that told the Knight that they had landed. Well, that and the pain, as the roof they had landed on impacted his back hard enough to bend his armor entirely inward. At least it was short.

Aye, short indeed. The pain did not last long at all, for he chose that moment to die- his spine, shattered when the breastplate had folded in on itself.

* * *

Dull sound, as if from underwater. His head throbbed, pulsed. A voice resonated, though it wasn't clear if it was inside his head or somewhere nearby.

His name. It sounded like his name. His body was shaken, jolted by leathery hands unkindly.

"-car, I k- -in there..."

He grunted, sitting up. Eyes opened, into hazy, blinding light. The sun, still hanging in the sky. His body felt lighter- his armor. Where was it?

"About time. It's been an hour."

He grunted, tried to speak and coughed horrendously. Who cared so little of his state that hi... her... The Seer.

Suddenly it all came crashing back to him. The explosion-rocked tower crumpling and tipping under the Taurus Demon's weight, his apprehension of the Seer as he leapt from the side. Did he really turn over, to end up on the bottom as they fell and save her the worst of the impact?

He must have. They'd crashed through a roof- a wooden one thankfully, and he'd been left atop a pile of rubble and broken boards to stare upwards through the hole. The air was still hazy with dust. His back ached, and his armor... was in tatters around him, evidently ruined and taken off by his charge. His skin- he must have died again, it was green, rotting and unwelcoming to the sight, pulled almost taut. A hand running through his hair told him a great deal had fallen out- been lost. Somehow he didn't feel like it mattered.

"If you're done checking yourself over, Sir Oscar, we should be going." She was holding the empty Estus flask, swinging the long bag over her shoulder.

"The Demon. Did it-" "I don't know. I heard it howling, not long ago. In all likelihood, we'll see it again if we don't get moving." Yes, she was hurried. Taking the cue, he got to his aching joints- yes, aching- and picked up his sword and shield from the Seer's hands. At least his armaments were intact, if a bit dented and scratched.

"What of a path? That tower is useless to us now, in pieces as it is." The question came then as he set about retrieving what he could from his armor- the blood-spattered greatcoat draped over his brown and stained doublet, a bandolier reclaimed to attach his shield, and the belted scabbard snipped free to his waist. The gauntlet for his swordarm was lost to impact damage, but the gloves were at least in good condition still.

It would be sad to leave good Astoran platemail behind, whatever its form, but at least he'd salvaged enough cloth to appear as if he had once been presentable.

"We must find one, Sir Oscar, even if it means clambering over the rubble. Come now, y- we can't be going Hollow this early on."

"Of course."

* * *

"I'm sure you'd have said if there were, but is there a way to... undo this?"

"Undo what?" The Seer sped her stride to bring herself closer to earshot, in the ruined roofstreets of the Burg. The area seemed familiar- if Oscar needed to judge, they were just past that bonfire they'd found in the ruined home. Of course, he'd pointed this out, and the response had been that the entire building had caved in when the tower fell. No bonfire there left to find- at least, not one they could have readily reached.

It likely still existed, but trapped under a mountain of rubble.

"The... rotting. Vain I might be, but I was rather attached to my appearance." Funny, how the Hollows did not seem to return as the duo did. Perhaps once you went fully to the mindlessness, you simply stayed in torpor. Not death, but dormancy, as he could see them occasionally stir.

Eventually, they would likely walk again, too. A sobering thought.

The Seer, on her part, seemed visibly unnerved by the question. "There... is. Humanity is not a simple concept, after all. It has a form. Little black sprites, almost alive." Her cagey expression did not go unnoticed, as he led her through the streets. At least without his helm, his peripheral vision was far improved.

"Your face tells me it isn't a savory topic."

"No." He heard her pause in step for a moment with a long exhale, before continuing on. "The stuff... humans are born with a certain amount, passed through the bloodline. Without the curse, humans are a beacon for Humanity, filtering wisps out of the world itself. With the darksign, that … that we share, it is no longer so simple a process. We can only gain more the... hard way."

"I'm going to guess killing." Oscar's grumble sounded odd, without his helm to make it echo. He missed it.

"You guessed right. It can either be found on dead humans, rarely, or taken from the recently deceased before another Hollow has pilfered it. Every time we perish, though, we lose a small amount- our bodies slowly lose the ability to maintain all our features. The Uncursed gather Humanity like nets, while the Cursed can only steal or lose it. Firekeepers are different- bonded with bonfires, even should they become Cursed they still have a beacon far greater than any other human's flesh."

"So it is not Souls that Hollows hunt, but the last vestiges of who they used to be." One thick-gloved hand pushed open a rotting wooden door, only for Oscar to let out a grunt as it fell completely from its hinges. Empty, with no new path forward. Move on.

"...Now you know why I would not see ill spoken of them."

"Be that as it may, Seer, they are still our foes here, and they would still seek our deaths. I should hardly think a little joking would be out of order, for morale's sake."

Her sigh was palpable, as they rounded another broken corner and slipped through an alley. "I suppose. ...And I have been meaning to apologize, for laughing at you in the Asylum. I did not mean offense, it was simply absurd tha- no. I apologize."

"No harm done!" Suddenly jovial at the prospect of progress with the Seer, if nothing else, the Knight had seemingly forgotten the sad act of harvesting Humanity altogether. "To be honest, if I'd known I was quite so durable as that, I'd have laughed at myself as well. Made for a sad sight, didn't it? One of the most well-armed and well-armored noble knights of Astora, weeping like a child and begging for someone to take up his quest at the first time he broke his spine? Ha! Should have taken until the twelfth at least."

At that, he could have **sworn** he almost heard her snicker, behind him. Although this time, it seemed to be less at him, and more at herself. "Aye. Thirteen for flinching, from your mother later. The Astoran way."

"Ah, you know Astoran families! And no supper- oh."

They stopped dead, in their trek towards the tower's ruins.

The Taurus Demon.

The howl that greeted their voices was no roar of anger. It was a howl- one of anguish, of pain, of struggle. Its muscles, its fur, torn and ragged by a fall no thing of its size was built to survive. Though survive it had, as it evidently strived to.

Trapped, beneath the bulk of a giant and shattered tower. Boulders of worked stone, crushing one of its two limbs beneath, as well as its entire lower half as it slowly bled.

Even if it had been a Hollow, and not a Demon, there was nothing else to fear from that gigantic skull of needle-teeth and fangs. It was trapped, and would be, with no hope of crawling out from beneath the structure until its end finally came. Every last bone was assuredly broken.

"Ye gods."

"...End it, Sir Oscar. Be kind."

"Aye."

The Demon roared out in full. One final time in purest hatred and rebuke, were the two nearly knocked from their feet by its voice, one of power and rage incarnate... but its beady eyes were already beginning to fade of that inner light as Oscar unsheathed his blessed edge and lifted it.

"Let this be the end of it."

His point drove through its neck, and the two felt their beings swell with a demon's soul.


End file.
